Dancing in the Storm

The air roared with intensity—

On the line of scrimmage, offensive and defensive players clashed like a meat grinder, creating a dense battle zone around the line.

But—

A red figure wearing number twenty-three didn't avoid this zone of carnage. Instead, his feet moved lightly, weaving through the chaos of opposing forces locked in fierce battles.

It was like dancing on the edge of a blade.

Plant. Leap. Spin. Breakthrough.

In his wake, he left a shadowy blur, sketching out an almost dreamlike running path. No matter how the fierce gusts of pressure surged toward him from all directions, they couldn't catch up with his movements.

Until a figure loomed into view.

Number ninety-four, Watkins.

At the game's critical moment, Watkins had shown his outstanding form, showcasing not only his impressive power but also a surprising agility, completely overpowering the opposing linemen. This time, his target was none other than Lance.

Watkins spread his arms wide, the rushing wind whistling between them, and a cruel grin spread across his thick, muscular face beneath the helmet.

One step forward—

He had him!

Watkins was overjoyed. Lance, who had been moving with such graceful agility earlier, now seemed exhausted, unable to change direction in time and had fallen into his grasp.

In a flash, Watkins exploded with power, his massive frame overshadowing Lance like a looming storm cloud.

And then came the collision.

Wham.

Watkins' grin froze at the corner of his mouth. The impact that was supposed to hit Lance squarely instead landed just off-center, hitting his shoulder like a heavy hammer blow.

For a split second, Watkins felt a jarring halt—

His mind buzzed.

The next second, the world spun wildly.

Watkins began to twirl like a ballerina, but the comparison was far from flattering. It wasn't the graceful movements of a ballet dancer; rather, he was more like a clumsy bear on ice skates.

Buzz.

Watkins' ears rang with noise, but his vision was empty—Lance had disappeared from sight.

Wait, where did Lance go?

He had already broken through.

Lance pushed past the impact, maintaining his balance even as he absorbed the force of the hit. His eyes shone with a fierce determination, a resolve to reach the end zone. His strides didn't slow; instead, he surged forward with renewed intensity.

Despite a slight stumble, Lance gritted his teeth, using the momentum from his plant to regain speed.

Alert!

Clemson's defense was quick to react, with secondary players converging on Lance like a tidal wave.

One. Two. Three.

And then four.

Four defenders boxed Lance in, positioning themselves with disciplined readiness. This time, however, Lance didn't try to plow through them. Instead, he went down to the ground voluntarily, choosing not to fight the impending tackles.

Stop the clock.

Time was the most critical factor for the Crimson Tide now. Lance had noted the tight formation of Clemson's secondary; although they were maintaining distance, their quick recovery left little room for opportunities. Rather than risk wasting precious seconds for an extra few yards, he chose to stop the clock.

Sure enough—

"Timeout!"

Saban didn't hesitate, immediately using the first timeout to freeze the clock.

Thirteen yards.

Lance's run had successfully advanced thirteen yards into Clemson's half, landing the Crimson Tide at the forty-six-yard line.

It wasn't just efficient; it was assertive.

Swinney quickly picked up on the Crimson Tide's newfound energy—he could see it in their eyes and feel it in their movements. The tide had shifted.

Not good!

Swinney realized they needed to counter quickly. Letting the Crimson Tide regain momentum now could lead them straight into danger. He remembered Lance's performance during the spring training game and felt a chill run down his spine.

"Stay vigilant!"

"Stay vigilant!" Swinney signaled to his players on defense.

What did this mean?

Only the Clemson players knew, as it was their internal code for a specific defensive tactic.

To the Crimson Tide's offense, it appeared as though Clemson hadn't changed their formation at all, maintaining the same stance and alignment. After all, the Tide were in a desperate situation, with their opponents still in a position to adapt and take risks.

Hurts exchanged a look with Lance—

His face was flushed, and sweat dripped from his brow, but his eyes shone with determination.

Bring on the storm.

Taking a deep breath, Hurts led his offense back to the line.

First and ten.

"Attack!"

Hurts' voice echoed through the stadium as he called the snap. As his fingers barely brushed the football, he sensed a wave of pressure rushing toward him.

Blitz!

Clemson's defense had made a surprising move, choosing an all-out blitz at this crucial stage. Not just in the fourth quarter, but throughout the entire game, Clemson had rarely blitzed, having successfully disrupted the Tide's flow without taking such aggressive risks.

Yet now, without warning, they decided to unleash a blitz.

Hurts was caught completely off guard. Not just him—Saban's face tightened with concern. Swinney had outsmarted them on this play, and in a game of this caliber, small details could determine the outcome.

Roar!

The Clemson Tigers sent a six-man rush, recklessly breaking through the offensive line's protection with brute force. Four defensive linemen and two linebackers charged headlong into the backfield, engaging in a fierce melee.

Hurts retreated quickly, his footwork faltering slightly as he struggled to maintain his composure. He scanned for passing options, but the chaotic jumble of bodies blocked his view.

He kept retreating, further and further back.

Hurts tried to regain his calm and relied on his legs to escape the pocket. After all, he was a mobile quarterback—it wasn't in his nature to stand still and wait for fate to decide his outcome. But Clemson's defenders had committed to their plan with relentless tenacity.

Strong. Steady. Unyielding.

No matter how much ground Hurts gave, he couldn't escape. The pocket crumbled around him, with defenders closing in from both sides, sealing off all escape routes.

"Don't give up! Don't give up!" Hurts kept repeating to himself. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of red. He made a quick decision and let the football fly.

—All eyes followed the football as it sailed through the chaos.

Whoa!

A hand shot up, disrupting the ball's trajectory—it was a Clemson defender. The entire stadium gasped.

An interception?

Could it be an interception?

It was close, so close. The ball grazed the defender's fingertips, slightly altering its path, but he couldn't secure the catch or swat it down. It was just inches away.

The football wobbled as it descended sharply.

Lance surged forward, adjusting his steps at the last moment. Abandoning his initial plan to run forward, he reached out with a quick grab, pulling the ball in securely.

Whoosh.

The stadium fell silent, breaths collectively held as the play unfolded. The stunned silence that followed was so profound, not a single sound could be heard.

Not even a whisper.

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Powerstones?

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